BBCSH 'Actually, Yes' (1)
by tigersilver
Summary: In which John & Sherlock are two actors in a low-budget porn flick and both very shy, really. Really. Or, I wickedly stole the plot from Love Actually and the characters from Moffat-Gatiss, TY, as portrayed in BBC's stunning productions. I will use them, abuse them mildly with much UST and schmoop as can be dashed in by a barking mad lady and then give them back, promise. Damp.


BBCSH 'Actually, _Yes_'

_In which John and Sherlock are two actors in a low-budget porn flick and both very shy, really. _Really._ Or, I wickedly stole the plot from _Love Actually_ and the characters from Moffat-Gatiss, thank you, as portrayed in BBC's stunning productions. I will use them, abuse them mildly with much UST and schmoop as can be dashed in by a barking mad lady and then give them back, slightly tousled. May be damp, too. All apologies, the Author._

* * *

It's a job and John Watson's fair grateful to have it.

The flatlet in which he's currently existing is pretty drear. And his agent, Harry, had said, it's like to be a decently paying position, as well, so the Christmas season's presenting itself as ever so much more a nicer prospect than before. Accordingly, he bustles through the studio door with a ready smile pasted on, guided by a rather intense 'Paul', his latest director, and nearly runs smack into another actor first thing. A bloke—really tall? Bit of a stick insect?

"And, brilliant, here's Sher—oh?"

"Paul! Oi, Paul—a moment?" Without benefit of formal introduction between him and the stick insect, as his director is ripped away from his side almost instantly by a harried looking PA with a killer flounce, John skids to a halt just as he's abruptly abandoned. "Just be a moment!" the third chap exclaims, the one with the officious clipboard and the prance. "Paul! Oh, darling, I need you over here—bit of bollocks with the set. Percy's gone and fucked with the gels again. Oh, sorry! Pardon, make way—do!"

"Hi, hullo," John remarks cheerily to the other chap, unfazed; all the day's been hectic this way so far and he's accustomed. "Rushing. Terribly sorry about that, almost bowling you over, yeah?"

He assumes the man's another actor by the attitude in which he's waiting, all posh and tremendously eye-catching as he dawdles about on the fringes. Got a stance to him, this fellow. Pity he's nearly just knocked him off flat his feet, then—right?

"Wrong Tube stop, nasty weather—oh, and the traffic?" John rushes on, thinking to make nice, or at least make small talk, as it's awkward. "Awful! Dreadful for the crowds, Christmas is, isn't it?"

The bloke says not a thing in return. Only stares. He's a bit like Dracula, John thinks, in his cape-like over-garment and listing forward where John's almost fetched up between his knees.

"Um. All right there?"

John sticks a hand out to grasp and steady the still-flapping coat-clad elbow of the man, who silently hands him yet another impression: of being a tall, ivory-and-charcoal-shaded pillar of upscale woolen tailoring. With a hint of purple. Well…John's already gotten that impression, now it's just enhanced dramatically as his eyes widen. John soldiers on, regardless. He is nothing if not intrepid. Never a problem on set, never.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm John. And you are?"

The elbow-grasping hand becomes a tentative handshake hand but the man doesn't take it. Again, it's a bit awkward for a moment.

Yes…awkward.

John's treated to a second brilliantly rapid sidelong stare as the man rights himself with an elegant shuffle of well-polished shoes. Rather long and intense, the once-over, from a pair of very fine, very unusually coloured eyes surrounded by thickets of dark lashes. And all this descending down from upon a distinct verticality.

As compared to John's own, that is, which is perfectly average, ta. John's not a giant, not at all, but he's a very respectable stature, cheers, and has never had an issue with the lasses and lads he's worked with before in these films. All cats are grey in the dark, yeah? And everyone's the same height on the horizontal. He doesn't see the problem.

"Yes?" A single syllable is snapped out sharply at him, but not in any sort of nasty way. "Ah-ah-_hah_."The strange eyeballs roll over him again, in a flicker. "Eh. Hmm," the man mutters, apparently to himself. "Oh. _I_ see."

"Er? See what, then? What's to s—oof!"

In a blink, John nearly has a full snoot-full of purple silk shirt. They're already standing uncomfortably close, swaying slightly in tandem; now they're even closer. He raises both hands, palms flat out, defensively, and swings his chin to avoid an oncoming mouthful of button plaquette.

"Er?"

_Hullo, what?_

"Yes, yes." The man tumbles into a deluge of speech, come all over bubbly with a manic enthusiasm—or something. Something…not quite right. "_You_ must be _my_ co-star, right? Watson, they said. We're meant to shag. Hmm, not bad, not bad a'tall, are you?"

A little off, definitely. "Neat as pin normally—but! Hah! Have a bit of a wrangle with the Tube door, did you? I see that wet stain on your trousers leg there, the right one; rotten weather we're having lately, isn't it? Very soggy. Yes, crowds. To be expected; hideous. Oh, and _I'm_—"

_'My co-star'?_ John finishes the man's sentence in the privacy of his own head. The thought suddenly seems a little daunting. Being landed with this chap—and in bed? Oh, dear.

He tilts his head enquiringly, meeting those very unusual eyes full-on. He'd thought as much, but hadn't even a chance to ask Paul to confirm who it was that he—oh! Second impressions are proving themselves a bit overwhelming.

_Dear me_, he thinks_. Yes._ _Where _ever_ did they find this one? Bedlam? Wet stains—_what_ 'wet' stains? _My_ trousers?_

Come to think, John's one leg is a bit damp and sore from the struggle with the Tube doors closing. Being crushed flat hadn't been at all appealing. He'd had himself a bit of row with them.

Alright, fine. So the bloke's observant. And…he's—

_Very_ tall, and very close up by John indeed. As best as he can, then, John tilts his chin up, that is, given the near proximity. And instead concentrates on the assault to his poor innocent ears, being buried in an onslaught of absolutely marvellously posh drawl. A rapid-fire stream-of-words, but plummy, like a Christmas pudding's brandied hard sauce, all poured on with a generous hand.

Oral sex, then…is it? Certainly audial. Oh!

Shagging, yes. _Right._ It's what John's here for. 'Multiple partners', Harry had mentioned, and at least one fellow included, but—this one?

The man's purring at John, some further nonsense about Tubes and damp. He's got his hands flapping all about, his person stationed not a half-inch off John's braced body. And this bloke's legs really are about two million miles long; he's fair gangly, which could cause a few logistical issues when they get down to business, John muses. He can certainly cover ground with them, though, can't he? They'd all but collided, then rebounded and now the blighter's quite, quite budged up again, in an agile sleight-of-foot. _Maybe he's also a dancer? _John wonders fleetingly. Still—seemed friendly enough.

_Uber_-friendly, actually. All the bonhomie in the world over, all ramped up ten notches high on the dial. Bit shocking!

"Sherlock."

The other bloke smiles suddenly at him, an abrupt grin, blinding in its breaking, and his voice _is _something else, just like all the rest of him. Very posh and polish, almost hypnotic in tenor, definitely public school, but infused with a certain bubbly insouciance at this moment. Distinctly a put-on, a positive fake! John gains the distinct impression the man has utterly no social skills of his own whatsoever and has happened to 'borrow' some along the way, just for this exact purpose, and possibly from some rom-com he's had a bit part in before. All of John's instincts leap to the gut conclusion this chap is as shy as he himself is. A trait actually oddly not so strange in an actor.

"Sherlock Holmes," the bloke repeats rapidly. Treats John to another stunning flash of teeth. "Hullo. Yes, John, is it? _John_."

John blinks, rapidly; hardly aware he's actually been blinking for some time now. Taking all of all this in. There's rather of lot of this chap to take in. No wonder he's been blinking so much—his eyes are stunned, really. Oh, and?

"_John_."

This guy. Where _did_ all that slightly cracked ebullience hail from, anyway? Was the git _on _something? A user?

John instinctively goes to step back; he's not very approving of users, though he knows plenty. In the biz and out and some his own family—ah, yes, dear Harry. Still, a decent agent.

Right. Not venturing there; this is hardly the time. Currently he's dealing with this…this…what, exactly? Or, _who_, rather?

Tall, well-fitted out man. Who _is_ another actor, just as John is. And as such, deserving of John's courtesy. Professional courtesy.

John clears his throat.

The man's peering at him intently, cocking his chin this way and that, and practically shoved up against John's front, his hips shifting sinuously. As if they two are already well on their way to a shag!

_No regard for personal space, then_, John thinks, with an inner sigh. _Oh well_. Perhaps that's a terribly practical trait for a porno actor? Or any actor, for that matter. Went right along with the edgy gregariousness, that did. _That's all right, then. Fine._

"John," John repeats, nodding foolishly. "John Watson, yes, that's it."

Er? Only somewhat foolishly, he hopes. In his own defense, this Sherlock bloke is a bit…odd. Seems to inspire fluster. But extremely fit. Very, very fit. He'd not mind being a bit friendly with him, if that was his lot in casting. Friendly was good. John's mates didn't call him 'Three Continents' for nothing, did they? No swooning violet was John Watson, thanks. Steady as she goes, then.

"That's introductions over with then, brilliant," the man snaps back, all teeth-and-swish. "John."

"Yes, hullo, right, very good—er? Mister. Ah."

John takes in all the eyeful of 'fit' on a continuing basis whilst he keeps up his smile gamely and smoothes back his rain-spattered dark blond hair with one steady hand. Nerves are definitely sinking in but he can't say he's displeased with the circumstances. And _not_ a user, either—John knows the signs and he's not seeing them here.

"…Sherlock."

"Yes, Sherlock." The man repeats this patiently, as if John were a toddler. A rather thick one. "Do'you have it down pat now? Holmes. I do so hate repetition, John. An unusual name, I admit, but family. You know how that is? Being named in honour of your paternal grandfather. Yes?"

John nods automatically. As yes, he was. Though how a chap he's only just met knows that, he doesn't ken. At least the fellow's not hard on the eyes. What he can see of him, that is, from pretty much no distance at all of any real perspective other than _up_. Shirt's quite decent, too. Bond Street. And very violet—very.

However, beyond the awkward kerfuffle of sorts going on, there's a point to this whole thing: they were engaged in something of a starter conversation? John does have a question, then:

"Ah? We're meant to shag, you said, just now? And which of us is to be the—"

"Top?"

Oh, god, yes, the man _is _tall and expressively lanky with it. He seems to always moving some part of him—arms, hands, fingers, person.

"Instigator?" And his clothes are well-fitted to the point of being almost a smidge too-tight, so they flex with him as he goes. Like he's swimming, really.

"Well. I thought _I_ am, but of course it's up to Paul, over there. His call, entirely. But—shall we?"

A perfunctory, completely dismissive nod in the direction of 'Paul, over there', their erstwhile director, and a deft twist of hips and sharp swivel of torso has Sherlock spinning on a heel, facing a convenient pillar, palms flat and arms braced against it. Apparently they shall. Dive right in, properly. Right now.

"Have a go anyway, won't you?" he invites, and John catches a hint of a saucy wink from over one broad shoulder where the man's head is jacked about on his incredibly swan-like white neck to glance back at him. The artful tumble of dark curls crowning his well-shaped head nearly crackles with banked excitement. John can't help but expect sparks. It might very well be due to the staccato manner in which this man spits out his syllables. He's fidgety, Sherlock. Full of life.

John's caught up, just a bit. All ears, all eyes, every particle of his attention.

"Makes no mind to me; _I'm _all for a change, John. Bored. So…ve—ry…bored. Assume so are _you_, wearing that particular shirt with that specific jacket. Hideous. Daring. _Not_ the rest of you, though. Underneath. Trim. Firm bum on you, too, I see. That's a bit of a—a good thing." John's treated to a blink of a sly, knowing grin, gone again as fast as he can take it in, before Sherlock Holmes continues to babble on that curiously absorbing fast drawl of his. "All good, there. Brilliant. So—eh?"

Another weird roll of eyeballs, incandescent, sparkling before he turns his head away and hitches his hips at an angle, presenting his fabulous arse for John's delectation.

"Take a little risk, yeah? Expand our horizons. Got your breath back? Grab on—go ahead, John. My hips, please. Don't be afraid to be firm, either."

_Firm?_

John blinks. Tilts his chin and purses his lips for a second, momentarily hacked off. Is visited with the distinct urge to spank that perfect bottom. But! The subtle insult to John's attire aside, really, that voice is quite something! All molten honey—with whisky poured in, and maybe even smoked, after! Like sex itself, a bit, but meant for the ears. He can imagine the git does very well for himself, on the radio. Bit of old money there; can't miss it, plastered all over him in expensive fabric. Filthy lucre, likely in the family. Explained the suit, then—doesn't it? Dear, that.

The aforementioned hips in the trousers? Exceeding fine, they are. They invite John's fingers. Yes…they do.

"_John_." Now he's gone all over impatient, this chap. Well, more impatient. Jittery. "You do enjoy a bit of a risk, don't you, John? I can't be wrong about _that_; I never am. Hop to, John. Don't be shy."

John giggles. It's utterly ridiculous and he can't help but laugh, as suddenly Sherlock is smiling back at him over a cocked shoulder for real. Not the stretchy-thin plastic of the previous grin but a sustained blitz of charming, and it near bowls John over where he stands, this time.

John _is_ shy, in reality. Quite. And…and, well, so is this chap, for all his words and coat and stunning looks. Fucking, bloody shy. Well!

Fancy that, then.

Bit of a comeuppance, that, but a nice one. Sherlock Holmes smiles winningly at him, but John can now detect the slight falter. There's a little wobble in it, but it's sincere as…as anything.

John inhales sharply in reaction; rolls his head upon his neck to let loose a little built-up tension he'd didn't even realize he was carrying. It's exhilarating, actually, to have provoked a grin of that caliber, and from a man of this sort. Quality goods, is it? And that arse is pretty tremendous, now John's a chance to have an actual look. _Whew!_

"Jo—?"

A pouty frowny face hovers; the man's just the_ nth_ away from possibly pulling a strop.

"Ah! Hah-hah!" John gulps, recalled to abrupt reality. Porno—right, _that_. Best to dive straight in, then; no hesitating. Professional! "Yes, alright, steady on—oh, may I? D'you mind if I—?"

Which doesn't preclude him minding his own manners. His exacting ones, drilled in by his mum. Bless her huge heart, she's never liked his career choice, but then she's not said a bleeding bad word against it, either. Not like his dad, the wanker.

"Go ahead," the Holmes fellow urges, jouncing about a little on well-heeled loafers. "_Waiting_, John."

"Then I'll just—oh, pardon!"

John slots himself gingerly round the back and legs and arse of the man and settles in. His pelvis takes up a familiar roll-and bump, almost automatically.

"That's—oh, sorry. Ah…Bit much, isn't it? Me copping a feel on our first meeting—sorry, sorry. Not even properly introduced; haven't even shaken your hand yet at all, have I?"

He finds they match up to each other's bodies in an amazingly marvelous manner, he and this Sherlock. Amazing well. His nose wrinkles as he can't help but smile again, this time at his fellow actor's oblivious spine. Chemistry, it feels like—pure unadulterated pheromones at work.

"Er, ah…shall we?" His turn to babble, then.

John contemplates the complete impossibility of shaking a hand when the hand in question is already wrapping 'round a quite well-built torso. Gripping—oh, nipples! No…no, not going to happen, is it? Handshakes.

They're of like mind, apparently.

"No! No, leave it, John. Perfectly fine."

The body beneath his shimmies into an impatient shrug. End result: they're fitted hand-to-glove. Just like the really fine leather ones this Holmes chap's got tucked up carelessly in one pocket of his greatcoat.

"Go at it! Come along, _John_."

"Yes!"

Really, that exact manner in which he says John's name, Sherlock? Enticing. Sexy as sexy can be. Really. John can't help but notice his heart rate's sped up tremendously. As has his dick, well risen, which is a flattering thing, at least for Sherlock. John's slow to action, normally, but he's got immense staying power.

If Sherlock knew that, which he probably doesn't. As it is, both John's cheeks pink slightly.

"Yes, right," he gulps, letting his body take over for him, confidently settling itself behind the million mile legs and the high ripe bum outlined in very thin, terribly expensive trousers. "I will, then. Just, er? Help myself."

"Help?" Another blinding backwards grin has those silky curls brushing John's nose. They tickle. "You _say_ 'help'…Bit mutual, isn't it? Rent, John. Helping each other."

"Oh, yes. Rent," John hastens to agree. "Horrible business, isn't it? Housing. London's so damned dear these days."

"Indeed."

For some reason that has the both of them laughing softly, together, and John feels Sherlock's shoulders shake where he's got one arm draped, reaching round to cling onto a broad chest. The other's already discovered the chap's bits, cupping them with care. The shared giggle has a set of what feels like rather delicious bollocks jiggling against John's spread-wide knuckles. He strokes them, as that's what _he_ likes. Can't go far wrong with a little handsy, can one?

Which, somehow, is very nice indeed, as these things go. Musing, John absently regards the long fingers of the hands spread across the pillar. They look well-kempt and, for an instant, all John can envision is those tapering digits gripping his own dick. Stroking it, long and smooth, just he's doing to Sherlock. Another exhilarating idea, that. He'd not mind switching this up, either. Not at all.

"Oh!_ Do,_" Sherlock hums, recalling John yet again to the current moment. He jumps, startled just a little, but his gait never falters. "Oh…John. I'd be quite agreeable to that idea. But not yet, please. Carry on. As you were. This is brilliant. Better than Christmas, really."

"Eh-hem!" John clears his throat softly, smiling into a cologned purple collar and a tumble of black silky locks spilling over it. His co-star smells good, too—yes, he does, indeed. And they really, truly seem to fit very well, despite any height differences. He's damned certain he can compensate, in any event. No one can ever claim John Watson's a disappointing lay, not on three continents. "Yes, all right."

It's a brilliant start, really. To the job, of course. He's not minding this, not at all.

"I can do that."

"I know you can. John."

This Sherlock, he says John's name as if he's smitten. Quite the actor, then. And John's full deep in love regardless when he feels the return of that peculiar silent huff of a laugh, vibrating against his belly, and he knows it. No! _Not_.

Not quite actually what's just happened. No…he was likely in love at first glance, John was. All the evidence seems to point directly to it, this one hugely surprising event.

This is no act, then. He's…he's not faking. Not a chance.

Of all things, John was never expecting to fall fathoms deep in love at Christmas. And not on job, and not when still clad in his damp second-best jacket and certainly not with a bloke who's likely more than a bit barking mad, decidedly high-maintenance from all appearances, and far too deliciously charming for his own good!

_Silly him, then. _ John smiles to himself, ruefully. Had he not just been bitching to Harry that nothing ever happened to him—gawd, this morning, even!

_Silly fucking me_.

John grins, and steadies himself against the back-thrust of an imperious set of thighs. Thighs don't lie, and neither do full-out stiffies, and Holmes-the-actor is nowhere near on-set yet, no. He shouldn't have, but he does…he does. Doesn't he?

There could…there very well could? Be something good to smile over. Really.

* * *

(A/N) I'm writing more of this. I cannot stand to leave it there; really, I can't! Bear with me, then, will you? Ta! Happy New Year!


End file.
